Despite those fears, I trusted my husband.
We scheduled the procedure three months later.
The waiting seemed endless.
As surgery approached, Nigel grew increasingly anxious.
His voice trembled while reviewing consent forms, and his hands shook the evening before the operation.
“Are you afraid?” I asked him as we lay in bed.
“Yes,” he admitted. “
But not of the surgery.”
“Then of what?”
He paused.
“Of losing you.”
His response confused me, but I blamed his nerves.
The following morning, nurses helped me onto an operating-room gurney.
Nigel squeezed my hand.
“You still have time to back out,” he said softly.
“I won’t,” I replied. “If this works, I want you to be the first thing I see.”
His breath caught before he kissed my forehead.
“I love you,” he whispered.
